


Shattered Glass

by battybatzgirl



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Body Worship, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, probably other kinks because this got away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:38:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6141757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battybatzgirl/pseuds/battybatzgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s something that comes so simply to Stan.  Because yes, he knows how to bite and claw and fuck Ford into stupidity, but he also knows how to make his brother squirm, make him want it, turn him into a whimpering, flustered mess.  With Ford acting so high and mighty, it sets Stan’s skin on fire, because he wants to knock Ford down a peg or two, bring him back to Stan’s level and to what he truly was: the other half to Stan, making him whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Glass

Ford has always been a bit of a control freak.  Looking back now, Stan realizes he has been like this his whole life.  But getting thrown into a portal and being forced to survive in alternate dimensions is something different than simply wanting his sock drawer organized. 

His brother had weird ticks about him now—Ford had to be the one to make the coffee in the morning, he had to take off his left boot first instead of his right—and they didn’t go unnoticed.  At first, Stan thought it was OCD, and it was, to an extent.  However, when it came to stupid things, like driving or making dinner, Ford would argue with Stan over who did what, putting up a proverbial wall and not backing down until Stan did. 

Ford had been getting worse these past few days.  He was too worked up, too paranoid, too afraid to let himself slip.  He wasn’t taking care of himself, and he was getting more reckless by the second.

In a way, it reminds Stan of when they were teenagers; when Ford would get too stressed about something and Stan would take it upon himself to relax Ford in the most basic way he possible: sex.  Something about letting Stan take control over his body turned Ford’s brain off, letting him come back to his senses after. 

Stan knows it’s been awkward, knows it’s been too long since they’ve done anything, but after conceiving a plan of how to get Ford to calm down, it was hard to ignore.  Ford might be a genius, so that made Stan partially a genius, too.

Stan knew about Ford’s shitty sleeping habit, how he would randomly fall asleep at his desk in the basement due to exhaustion.  This allowed the perfect window of opportunity for Stan to put his plan into action.

Despite his brother’s popular belief, Stan knew about each and every one of his experiments.  It was if Ford didn’t think Stan would tear apart the Shack trying to find a way to bring him out of the portal.  Stan did just that, and discovered just how smart—and dumb—his brother turned out to be.

But that isn’t important.  What is important is how Stan is actually the smart one, how he snuck into Ford’s lab while he was sleeping and snatched a bewitched rope out of one of the drawers, looping it around Ford’s wrists while he was passed out underneath his desk. 

Ford, who woke up only a moment later after Stan had tightened the knot, was not amused.

“Stanley, what on earth—“

“Take it easy, Poindexter,” Stan reassures him.  “You’ve been really wound up lately.  I’m just helpin’ you relax.”

“Wound up?” repeats Ford, frowning.  “I’m not wound up.  And I certainly don’t need anything you plan on doing.  Are you using the rope from the Kitsune trap for this? You realize it’s incredibly dangerous when exposed to sunlight—“

“Sounds like you’re scared,” Stan cuts him off, egging Ford on.   Ford’s eyes narrow, and Stan can’t help but grin, because Ford falling for the bait exactly the way Stan wants him to.  “Afraid to give up control.”

Ford scowls and his jaw pushes out, like he is preparing for a fight.  “I’m not afraid of you, Stanley.”

“I think you’re afraid of shutting off that big brain of yours,” Stan says, leaning closer over Ford to brush his lips gently across Ford’s ear.  “To let yourself go.”

When Stan pulls back, Ford is flushed, but not quite blushing.  It’s like he is frustrated more than anything—at Stan, at himself.

“So, what?” Ford asks, his voice flat.  “You rip off all my clothes and we frott into oblivion while I’m helpless?”

“Nah,” Stan shakes his head.  “I’ve got a different plan in mind for you.”

Ford opens his mouth to retort but Stan leans forward, and instead of kissing his brother on the lips, he pecks Ford on the tip of the nose.  Ford blinks hard, looking like he is short circuiting, clearly not expecting this kind of action from Stanley.  Then, when Stan kisses both of Ford’s cheeks, deliberately dragging stubble across Ford’s own face, a pink color rises under Ford’s skin.

And suddenly, they’re teenagers again, and Ford is nervous and unsure and Stanly is driven by the simple need to have Ford for himself. 

It’s something that comes so simply to Stan.  Because yes, he knows how to bite and claw and fuck Ford into stupidity, but he also knows how to make his brother squirm, make him want it, turn him into a whimpering, flustered mess.  With Ford acting so high and mighty, it set Stan’s skin on fire, because he wants to knock Ford down a peg or two, bring him back to Stan’s level and to what he truly was: the other half to Stan, making him whole. 

Stan knew it.  And he knew Ford knew it, too. 

Ford lets out a huff, and it sounds breathier than it probably should, and Stan knows he’s winning.

“If you’re trying to prove anything, this tactic isn’t going to work,” Ford tells Stan, and Stan nearly rolls his eyes.  

“Sixer, just relax,” Stan says, sitting back away from Ford’s body.  “Let me do this for you.”

He then works on removing Ford’s boots—the left before the right.  He does it slowly, purposely not looking up.  He wants Ford to be unable to predict what is coming next.  His brain will shut off, Stan predicts, and it won’t be able to keep up.  Stan had always been a little predictable, simply because Ford had always demanded the things he wanted Stan to do to him.  Even though Stan was the one fucking him, Ford had been the one in control.

This time, Ford wasn’t going to top from the bottom.  He was going to bottom from the…bottom.  Or, whatever.

Stan has both Ford’s boots off now, and sets them gently to the side.  He risks a glance up at Ford—he looks perplexed, as if he can’t understand why Stan isn’t pressing him down into the floor and fucking him within an inch of his life. 

Stan goes back to removing Ford’s socks, slowly, one at a time, neatly folding them and placing them next to Ford’s boots.

“You’re being…oddly careful,” Ford observes.

“Can’t a man respect clothing?” Stan jokes and bends forward, bringing one of Ford’s ankles to his lips.  Stan hears it when Ford’s breath hitches, and he smirks into the smooth skin.

“You—you tend to rip things,” Ford points out, still talking, still _arguing_.  “I-I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fold anything.”

Stan hums, switching his attention to the other ankle, pressing his lips against the hollow between the bone and heel.  “Guess I’ve changed a bit.”  Stan pulls back and sits on his heels, and Ford squirms under the attention.

“Stanley, you might as well get this over with,” Ford urges.  “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, but—“

“I told you,” Stan says, moving up, letting his lips hover just over Ford’s, breath ghosting across his twin’s lips.  “I’m helping you relax.”

Just as Ford’s eyes droop, just as he lifts his chin a bit to push their lips closer, Stan pulls back again.  Ford’s face is flushed, and he stares blankly for a moment, like he can’t understand what just happened.  Stan bites the inside of his cheek, because if he starts gloating now he’ll lose the effect and they will start fighting again.  Instead, Stan switches tactics and starts undoing Ford’s belt.  Ford’s hips immediately jut upward, but Stan’s hands shoot away to prevent any kind of contact. 

Ford, now obviously frustrated and confused, bites out a, “Stanley, what are you doing?”

Stan can hear the nervous edge to Ford’s voice underneath all the bravado.  It’s working. 

“Sixer, you really need to start listening to other things besides the sound of your own voice,” Stan replies.  He settles over Ford, keeping himself elevated on his elbows and knees, leaving a space between him and his twin’s body.  The only way Stan touches Ford is when he weaves his fingers into is hair, simply massaging the base of Ford’s skull for a moment before pulling him up slightly into a kiss.

Ford immediately opens his mouth, his tongue pressing against Stan’s still closed lips.  And Stan keeps them closed, kissing Ford in the most chaste way possible.  Ford makes a frustrated noise and squirms under Stan again, attempting to arch up into Stan’s body.  Stan doesn’t give in to the temptation to grind down into his brother, and keeps himself elevated so no contact is made between their bodies no matter how hard Ford tries.  Ford makes another sound, but this time it’s more like a whimper, and he lets his head fall back to the floor, breaking the kiss.

“Stanley,” he says, his voice an octave higher than it normally is, “do you intend to keep me here forever?”

“Just an hour or two.”

“ _What_?” Ford cries, his spine going rigid.  And Stan can’t help but grin at the look of pure horror on his brother’s face.

“The kids are with Wendy, they won’t be back until tonight—“

“You can’t be serious!”

“As a heart attack.”

Ford lets his head fall back and he groans.  “You _are_ trying to kill me.”

Stan snickers.  “I’ve told ya a thousand times already, Poindexter.  I’m helping you relax.”

“I am _not_ relaxed,” Ford huffs, pulling at the glowing rope above him, trying to get his arms free.  “If anything, I’m more on edge than I have been in _weeks_ , and—“

“Yeah, yeah, keep complainin’.  You’ll thank me later,” Stan tells him, pulling his hand out of Ford’s hair and reaching down to pull the bottom of his sweater up past his chest. 

Ford flushes and squirms, continuing as if Stan had never interrupted him, “— _And_ I don’t have time for your silly game— _ah_!”

Ford betrayed himself when Stan licked a stripe up his now exposed stomach.  Stan considers this a small victory.  Ford whines when he does it again, and Stan pauses, resting his chin against Ford’s hip. 

“W-what?” Ford asks, his chest heaving, his face and neck colored red. 

“Well, I was just thinkin’,” Stan says, one of his hands drawing soft, small circles over Ford’s ribs, “if ya don’t have time for this, I should stop.”

Ford stares at Stan for a moment before his face turns thunderous.  “Stanley, if you even _think_ about leaving me like this—“

Stan laughs, and presses a kiss to Ford’s quivering stomach, just above his naval.  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Sixer.  It’s too easy to get you all riled up.”

Ford opens his mouth to reply, but Stan kisses him, this time pushing his tongue into his brother’s mouth.  Ford groans in relief and kisses Stan back hungrily.  Stan wants to drag this out, but if Ford kept moaning like that Stan isn’t sure if he can last long. 

Stan breaks the kiss, pressing his mouth against Ford’s jawline and Ford makes an approving groan, tilting his head to let Stan have better access. 

“I know you like taking things fast,” Stan says into Ford’s neck, his voice low and gruff.  “Know you like it when I throw you down and fuck you hard.”  At this, Ford whines and squirms.  “But I’m gonna make you wait until you can’t help but beg for me to split you open.”

“ _Lee_ ,” Ford’s cry is breathy, and he thrusts his hips up again, still finding no contact.  Now his voice has a helpless edge to it, “Y-you planned th-this.”

Stan snorts, nipping at Ford’s earlobe lovingly.  “Not as stupid as I look, huh?”

And all Stan can hear is Ford’s panting breaths next to his ear, but when Stan covers Ford’ straining cock with his hand, Ford squeaks.  He thrusts up into Stan’s hand.

“Easy there, Sixer,” Stan says, immediately removing his hand. 

“Stan, I am going to kill you,” Ford threatens, but there is no heat behind it, his voice is high and reedy. 

“Gotta keep you intact a while longer,” Stan mutters, and begins kissing a trail up from Ford’s stomach to his chest.

“Yo-you’re goin-g the w-wrong way,” Ford stutters, his voice cracking as Stan pinches one of his nipples. 

“It’s opposite day,” Stan tells him, kissing around and finally sucking on his other nipple.  Ford’s head falls back onto the floor with a _clunk_.  “ _I’m_ the smart one,” Stan says, releasing the bruised and swollen nub with a pop.  “I get to decide what I do to you.”

Stan starts kissing back down to Ford’s stomach, mouthing at each one of his ribs, trailing his tongue across his naval.  Ford is all gasps and moans, arching up into Stan’s touch, and when Stan trails his hand across the span of Ford’s chest, he can feel how fast his twin’s heart is beating. 

Pulling away again, Stan’s hands work quickly this time, sheading his tie, suit jacket, and shirts.  When he unbuckles his pants and carelessly tosses them away, Ford snorts.

“Wh-what happened to respecting clothing?” Ford sneers.  Stan, now naked, crosses his arms.

“I can do whatever I want,” Stan chastises. 

“It _is_ opposite day, apparently.”

“Keep sassin’ me like that Sixer, and I’ll gag you.”

Ford’s whole body jerks, and Stan’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh ho, you want that?” Stan asks, a predatory grin stretching across his face.

Ford’s face is so red it _glows_ , and Stan laughs.  Ford bites out a, “Stanley!” but that’s all he can say before Stan kisses him again.  This time, it’s rough, all tongue and teeth.  Ford keeps trying to turn the kiss around, trying to make it so _he’s_ the one leading, he’s the one winning, but Stan won’t let him. 

This isn’t a kiss; it’s a fight.

A fight in which Ford cheats.  He hooks one of his long legs around Stan’s waist, using the leverage to grind his still clothes erection with Stan’s naked one.  Before he can help it, Stan groans loudly, and he can literally _feel_ Ford smirk into the kiss.

“Cheating bastard,” Stan hisses, yanking away from the kiss.  Somehow, even with his arms restrained above his head and his sweater hiked up past his nipples, Ford still has the ability to look smug. 

Fine.  If Ford wants to play dirty, Stan can too.  He didn’t get kicked out of eighty different casinos in five states for nothing.

The next instant consists of Stan living up to his reputation as he rips Ford’s pants and underwear off.  He doesn’t immediately start the process of stretching Ford like he wants to, though.  No, he told Ford he would make him beg, and Stan was going to live up to that even if it killed him.

Stan turns his attention to one of Ford’s knees, kissing the sensitive skin behind the joint before trailing up the inside of his thigh slowly with his mouth.  Ford’s breath is starting to pick up, and just as Stan gets close enough to Ford’s aching cock, he switches legs and starts again.  Ford growls and his hips thrust up desperately, urging Stan closer.  Instead, Stan holds his hips down with enough force to bruise, and bites sharply on the soft skin on Ford’s thigh.

Ford yelps in pain and Stan soothes the bite with his tongue.  “Behave, Sixer,” Stan warns, then trails his tongue across Ford’s hipbone, stopping only half in inch away from his cock.

“Lee,” Ford whines, his hips shuddering again.  “Damn it!”

“I’m also teaching you patience.  You’re getting one hell of a lesson here,” Stan says, moving lower so he lies on his stomach between Ford’s legs.  He pushes Ford’s legs up, and begins kissing down the back of Ford’s thighs, his brother making soft sounds of approval.

“I-is that wh-what you’re calling this?” Ford asks, his voice high and thin, like he’s made of glass and might break if Stan’s not careful.  “A lesson?”

Stan bites one of the cheeks of Ford’s ass and Ford yelps again.  “In self control,” Stan murmurs, his voice low.  “But don’t overthink it.  In fact, shut up.  Or else I really will gag you.”

There is a silence where Stan thinks Ford is rolling his eyes.  Ignoring his brother’s obvious indignation, Stan lifts Ford’s legs a little higher and swipes his tongue across Ford’s puckered entrance.

“Lee!” Ford gasps, his legs jerking in Stan’s grip.  Stan only grabs his thighs tighter and presses his tongue harder against Ford’s entrance.  Ford moans outright now, his head rolling back, and soon he starts rocking his hips, fucking himself on Stan’s tongue.

“Oh, oh—s-so good, L-Lee,” Ford babbles, and hearing the way his voice wavers and cracks is almost too much for Stan.  But he doesn’t want to finish now; he can’t. 

Stan pulls away and looks up at Ford.  His twin’s face is flushed and dazed, his hair ruffled from where he has been thrashing his head, his glasses hanging low on his nose.  Another spike of arousal goes through Stan.  Ford looks like some kind of debauched professor, a kink Stan didn’t even know he had until this exact moment.

No, it wasn’t a kink for a naughty professor, Stan realizes.  It was just a kink for _Ford_.

Stan stares for too long, _waits_ too long, and he can literally _see_ when Ford’s brain reboots.  He blinks a few times and nudges Stan a little too hard with his foot. 

“Stan,” Ford says, impatient. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan waves his hand and stands.  “Don’t you go anywhere,” he jokes as he moves to his discarded suit jacket and reaches into the pockets to grab the tube of lube he had stashed there earlier.

“Do you always have such scandalous things hidden away in your pockets?” Ford asks, and Stan settles back between his legs. 

“I planned this, remember?” Stan says, opening the cap and slicking up his fingers.  “I’m the smart one.”

Ford only hums in response, a noise that turns into a low moan when Stan inserts one finger.  Ford pushes his hips back onto Stan’s finger, letting out a loud groan when Stan adds a second.

“Eager, are we?”

And the glare Ford gives him is deathly—at least, until Stan brushes against Ford’s prostate.  Ford’s body jerks and he lets out a strangled sound. 

But Stan doesn’t touch him there again.  In fact, he works deliberately to avoid that special area, and it makes Ford squirm in desperation.

“Stanley,” Ford hisses. 

“You can still say my name,” Stan ponders out loud.  “I must not be doing good enough.”

“No,” Ford snaps.  “Fuck me, _Stanley_.”

“Mmm, maybe in a bit,” Stan says, his fingers scissoring now, making Ford whimper.  “I promised I’d make you beg.”

“I _am_ begging,” Ford says, exasperated.

“No, no, no.  You’re being _needy_.”

Ford lets out a frustrated noise, sinking back down onto Stan’s fingers.  “I-I want you,” Ford says softly, turning his head to the side to avoid looking at Stan.  And even though it isn’t what Stan was expecting, the words almost physically hit him, making him inhale sharply.  “Now will you—“

“Not good enough,” Stan snaps, and jams Ford’s prostate hard with his fingers.  Ford’s body goes ridged, and he cries out loudly.  “You’re so fancy with all your dimensions and PHDs, but you can’t even ask nicely for anything.”

“P-please,” Ford tries again, and Stan curls his fingers again, almost in punishment. 

“Please what?”

Ford takes a sharp breath, and when he doesn’t answer immediately Stan removes his fingers completely.  Instead, Stan lines himself up but stills, and after a second Ford squirms in desperation. 

“I’m waiting,” Stan reminds him.

“Please fuck me,” Ford gives in, and that is the last coherent phrase that leaves his mouth.  Stan pushes himself into Ford’s tight heat, as far as he could go (probably farther than he should have gone in the first thrust) but Ford’s shout of surprise turns into a low moan, and everything else fades away.

Soon Stan is fucking him in earnest, like how he wanted to when Ford kept fighting him, because _why_ _did Ford have to fight him in everything why couldn’t they just enjoy something for once instead of it exploding like shattered glass—_

Stan’s hands are all over Ford, on his chest, his legs, running up and down his sides, and it was like he was trying to convert words through gentle touches despite how hard he was drilling into his brother.

And Ford is lost to the sensation, crying out as Stan pounded him into the floor, arching his hips back into Stan’s, still trying to give as good as he got.  Ford was so tight, so perfect and beautiful as he writhed under Stan, his eyes fluttering closed behind fogged glasses.

Stan hooks one of Ford’s legs over his shoulder, not caring if it hurts him.  Stan just needs to be deeper, and that action makes connection between Ford’s brain and mouth shut off because he starts _talking_ and doesn’t shut up.

“L- _Lee_ , oh g-god, don-don’t stop, _ah_ —“

Stan can feel the telltale heat pooling in his stomach, but he doesn’t want to lose this.

“—Ple-please, Lee, god, I-I can-can’t—“

He can’t lose this, not yet, can’t lose _Ford_ , not again, not ever again, can’t let Ford rebuild all those walls Stan has been working hard to break down.

“—Lee, w-want you— _need you_ —“

That phrase causes Stan’s hips to stutter.  He slows his hips and breaths out, “W-what did you say?”

Ford’s head thrashes back and forth, his eyes clenched shut in overstimulation as he sobs, “Ne-need you, St-Stanley, I-I need you, need you.”

Stan picks up his pace again, only thrusting two more times before he seals his lips over Ford’s and bites down hard and comes.  His shout gets absorbed into Ford’s mouth, but it’s better this way because it makes Ford _feel_ it, makes Ford accept Stan whether he likes it or not.

Ford follows him over the edge a moment later, his voice cracking over Stanley’s name.  His whole body seizes up and he shudders, his body breaking out in goosebumps which Stan can feel once he collapses against him. 

For a moment, they both just breathe, Stan’s face buries in his brother’s neck, inhaling as much of Ford’s scent as he can before he has to get up and leave all this behind. 

A small noise leaves Ford’s throat, and Stan feels him shift under him.  “ _Lee_ ,” Ford whines, “my leg.”

Stan realizes that he still has Ford’s leg hiked over his shoulder, and he sits up a bit to let his leg down.  Stan’s movements are sluggish, and Ford still looks out of it too, dazed and flushed from the roots of his hair down to his chest.

Then Stan reaches past Ford’s head to untie the rope, the whole thing that had started this in the first place.  Stan swallows as he does so, feeling as if he is undoing some kind of promise.

But Ford’s hands immediately latch on to Stan, pulling at him, bringing him to a kiss that is gentle compared to everything they have just done. 

 _I love you_ , Stan thinks. 

“I need you,” Ford had said.  It wasn’t much of an improvement from where they began, but it was a start. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just have a lot of feels about these two idiots, okay?


End file.
